Abovo: The Beginning
by daveydgaf
Summary: A fog of denial clouds the colonies' vision, but something much darker and more sinister is withholding Tate's own memory from himself. Driven by simple urges of survival and redemption, he has reappeared in colonial space after a lifetime across the armistice line. With an unknown mission and the odds falling against him at every corner, time is running short before 'they' return.


Abovo

-Author's note-

I am a newcomer to the BSG series, currently in mid/late Season 3 and have become a huge fan, I enjoy the drama, the characters, the dichotomy in narratives and perspectives and thus felt a strong urge to write about it. Though I have not written anything relatively decent in quite some time I expect this to be a rusty reintroduction to writing and storytelling for me, so, I hope you can bear with me and help, if you feel so inclined, by review and commenting. Again, newcomer and am not a full fledge indoctranie to the lore so there are mistakes with canon and story that I expect, but my goal is to pursue this enjoyment from writing in this universe, thank you and I hope you enjoy,

-David

1\. Abovo

Skin pressed against cold steel. Sweat dripping off his brow nearly turning to icy flakes in transition to the floor. The grate above him seemed to weigh more with each passing moment, Small aches transforming into swords splitting muscles in half. In eight years of constant running, Tate had never become so intimate with such a small airlock hatch.

A tight hiss echoed through the causeway, metal screaming as a dense fog bellowed through the ever-increasing door, a product of burning steel in empty space.

 _How the frack did they find me?_

Baffled, he began cycling through solutions to the precarious situation he found himself in. Soles of boots began crossing the fogged plane from the boarding ship, a herd of colonial marines, mercenaries... Whoever they were it didn't make much of a difference, Tate was still under the floor they were above and he knew their reason for arriving, as well as the stylish and coordinated assault.

Him.

"Triton, Washer. Boots down, search commencing. Over."

Overhearing, almost a muffle under the underwhelming herd of feet, Tate knew there wasn't an option out of the under-floor storage, or off the civilian freighter he had stashed himself away on, that would be easy. Making a quick move through the floor panel above would prove too loud and the only other alternate route was through a smaller passage way which exited where his soon-to-be captors where heading.

As the search party above made its' way down the corridor and out of sight impatience grew, like a weight in the air, slowing time, pulling all things down as gravity does. It was now or never and Tate understood; _a small chance is better than no chance._

A moment for meditation and several breaths to prepare for his escape, knowing the hardest part would be lifting the steel grate, which he'd already been supporting since departing the Battlestar he had fled. He began to tense his body in preparation for escape, attempting to summon any energy left as the moment was upon him. With less intensity than he had hoped for, the floor was raised enough to slide.

With no more room than needed, Tate staggered his body upright, the former aches which seemed so excruciating, paled in comparison to this new feeling. Arms wrapping out and over, he pulled himself up onto the causeway floor, skipping any sort of evasionary tactics, pursuing a dead sprint towards the airlock opening. The dense fog still hugging the ground, spreading around each step, wrapping around Tate like a stream.

With a surge of adrenaline and a mind purging any thought of failure he began onwards. Lights flickering above him he could barely make out the airlock at the end of causeway. A glimmer of hope appeared in the shadow, a darker black. _They had left the boarding hatch open, thank the gods!_ With a doubt, it could be that easy, Tate pressed his luck, maybe they were that stupid or maybe they were just that eager to get off and find him, so much so that they would frack up search and capture protocol that badly.

Despite his reservations and training telling him his success was not likely, he continued. Each step shooting acute pain through his legs and constricting his chest, every muscle movement producing acid in his body, wearing out an already exhausted Tate.

With the airlock just in front of him he almost feinted a smile of relief, it might not have been so impossible at all.

After a handful of seconds, he was inside the boarding craft. Dim red lights washed over the entirety of the ship. Without a single soul inside it appeared his gamble had paid off. Still, an inkling of suspicion floated over him as he took the pilot's chair. Falling back against his training, Tate skimmed every inch of the command console, levers, buttons and throttles.

A couple swipes of the hand and the engines were primed, he would figure the jump coordinates after he was "safe" or he'd just make a blind jump, all he had left to find was the manual override to close the airlock behind him.

 _Godsdamnit! Where did they put the pressurizer?_

Half a dozen voices could be made out in the background over the internal sounds of the docking craft. He had a few moments before the search and capture team would find him, if he was lucky. A heavy wave of perspiration washed his whole body as he knew he was inches from finding the airlock commands, he could feel it.

Now twice as many boots as voice could clearly be heard storming down the causeway towards Tate, and just as it seemed almost impossible for him to get away, he smashed a random button and _swish!_ A cruel sound of metal against metal overcame all other noises and at last, he had a sense of surviving.

With a quick navigational check, Tate released the docking arms and initiated the thrusters ever so slightly, he did not need to be a hundred klicks away to jump but most would call him a fool for attempting one so close to the freighter. His only chance at survival, the only one he could take and if it was a flashy move then that would be a bonus.

Peering through the ships windows half a dozen or so Geminon civilian vessels clustered his path and just as he was about to look back at the control panel he saw a gigantic ship slip into view from overhead, _a Battlestar_. It had been quite some time since he had really _seen_ space or a colonial warship. It was almost intoxicating, something in him reached out, wanting to save these people, to tell them... but he couldn't.

A quiet _thunk_ in the back section of the ship set Tate into a micro second spiral of dread, he turned to investigate but it was already too late. The butt of an assault rifle was set for direct collision with his face and, in what seemed like an eternity, the rifle had eventually hit, he was unconscious and his future became uncertain to a degree.

They would most certainly kill him, they did not know who or what Tate was but for all he had done, the sequence of events had just played out in opposition of his favor. Coming into known Colonial space over the armistice line, an odd coincidence few would agree.

Now none of that mattered, he could be on his way to the nearest Battlestar or colonial planet to face extensive interrogation or, for all Tate knew, he could already have a bullet in his head. Only time would tell if he had survived his unlikely "escape".

A quiet stream of conversation continued through his waking but it was not coming from the interrogation room, muffled talk barely squeaked through the door, he was chained in. Head flat on the table his eyes barely able to open, like the airlock doors he had escaped through moments ago... or hours, possibly days.

He was on a ship, he knew that much for certain but which, specifically, and where they were in the galaxy was anyone's guess. Unfortunately, that threw a bit of a binder into his plan. Now that he thought of it, it wasn't so much a plan as a gut feeling. A feeling no one in the universe was capable of understanding and that was the dilemma he found himself in. How could explain to his captors what he was doing, travelling across the armistice line, smuggling himself aboard a probable criminal freighter. All the favor in the world weighed against him on this.

His only chance was to come clean and hope for understanding, a farfetched dream but one he had to pursue... If not everyone he had ever cared for, would die. Some things never change, and the proof was in the beating. It had been a day or so since Tate gained consciousness, a day or so of pure, unadulterated violence. Accusations springing out of the air like wild birds, flying across the brightly lit room and pounding themselves into every part of his body.

"He's with the fracking smugglers! Why else would anyone be out in _their_ space!"

"There isn't a single chance this scumbag's not a cheat." The conversation faded and his captors returned to him, bring with them a _swift hand of justice._

For what seemed like an eternity, nothing but abuse came from the humans, but as far as they knew, he was either a criminal or a spy. The only issue is, they had not seen what he had.

With only one hand to play, Tate knew he would have to play it soon. One misstep, one hole in his story and they would sit him in front of an execution squad with nothing but pure bliss radiating from their ignorant and unintelligible faces. That is, until the Cylons jump into orbit of the twelve colonies, obliterating everything human in sight, then these "patriotic" men and women would look like fools for turning a deaf ear to what he has to say.

With a sense of smug that humanity was in his hands, a feeling of responsibility washed over like a cold shower, sobering him to the fact that it would be incredibly hard to survive if everyone else was dead.

With a layer of his own blood covering his face and bonding it to the table beneath him, he couldn't but help think of hiding under the causeway of the freighter before his capture. The way his sweat welded him to the cold steel walls of the hiding crevice. The thought was lost in a flash of a hand thrown at his face as a guard had pulled him up by his hair and a fist followed instantly. His head bobbled and slammed back into the table like a blood-soaked meteor.

A door opened somewhere behind Tate, a distinct hiss, followed by a pair of feet. He assumed someone in command as the two guards and interrogator in front of him assumed attention. The starkly black haired woman in front of him that had taken the role of the _bad cop_ made her way around her prisoner and to the door. A quiet whisper from the newcomer floated in the air, unrecognizable but still carrying weight.

"We oughta just kill him now, sir. He hasn't given us anything and if he really did come from _their_ side of the line, then he is a threat, we don't know what he was doing."

 _Her voice is... incredible, so smooth and graceful. I suppose it is easy to look on it like that after having been beaten within several inches of your life._ Tate thought to himself. In the middle of his own wanders the guards and _his_ blacked haired beast had left the room, presumably under orders from the newest addition to the torture committee.

A dramatic fellow, he assumed an officer as he had taken his time walking in pace towards the chair opposite of Tate. Hair, military fade, brown with half a dozen miniscule grey highlights, clean shaven, uniform, spectacularly worn, every inch to regulations. Then the masterpiece, two silver pins, one on each side of opening of the blue collar, something that brought a vague flash of images of crew and ship alike, the military, something Tate would have pondered over longer if he wasn't in such an immensely difficult situation.

 _An officer! Someone who can appeal to subterfuge and reason._

After a long physical introduction meant to intimidate, the man charged with Tate's life stood. No words, just a stare as cold as any metal. He could feel the piercing stare trying to penetrate his intentions, a futile attempt.

"If I can withstand _their_ interrogation I believe I am over qualified to deal with you," a brief pause to glance at his name plate located on his opposite's upper left chest, "Merandus." Following his statement with the same stone solid face he had been greeted with. His opposite in the room did not handle his first words since his capture so well.

Almost breaking his steel expression, Tate knew he had struck a sensitive subject, well it was the only real reason he had for being a prisoner.

"I assume you know why you are here then." A voice like gravel paved the obvious in front of Tate, this would be an interesting conversation. "Then I will make this short."

A brief moment passed before the officer placed his hands on the chair, swiveled it and sat.

"You were picked up by an outer patrol on the armistice line. You nearly killed..."

"I would like to note that I've _almost_ killed, please, continue." Tate interjected, leaving a tinge of annoyance on Merandus' face.

"Nearly killed two pilots, commandeered a colonial military Raptor, evaded arrest attempts and somehow managed to stow away on a known criminal freighter," the officer readjusted himself, Tate knew, verbatim, the question that would follow, "either you are a spy in cohesion with the smugglers using the space outside our jurisdiction to do Gods knows what or, a coalition spy, using the cargo ships as cover to track our ships' positions. So, tell me, whoever you are, what is the truth."

Slightly stunned by the line of question, Tate had to take a moment to reconsider how much the general military knew about what had happened prior to his _escape._ The familiar feeling of sweat leaking off of his forehead returned.

 _They didn't know._

" _They_ are coming."

A fragment the size of a nuclear bomb had been dropped in the cold brightly lit room, a shard of information that would turn the colonies on their heads. For some reason, the officer showed no difference after the statement. His eyes continuing their own interrogation.

"Who is coming?" More rhetorical than a true question, Merandus seemed to obtuse to grasp what he had been told.

" _Them,_ "Tate sighed, he couldn't bring himself to remember who he was talking about, his captors, " _they_ know you breached the armistice. They know you crossed the border into _their_ space and are planning an attack, I don't know maybe three dozen ships, hundreds of thousands."

"You must be joking." The blue clad officer chuckled.

 _He doesn't believe me._

"You babble about the Cylons but cannot even speak their name, and. If that is who you are speaking about; the colonial fleet has not over stepped a foot into Cylon space since the treaty." Showing considerable signs of distress to the officer's response, Tate knew he was losing his cool. "It seems you've shared as much as you are willing to, or capable of. You will be held indefinitely and transferred to the fleet capital ship to await your trial for charges of piracy, conspiracy against the colonies and assaulting military officers."

With a lead-like weight in the air Tate could not muster the strength to peel the gloss of stupidity off of his face, Merandus was done with the conversation, taking no head of his warning. With a stern sigh he stood and began towards the door.

"Wait."

His voice fell flat just as his hope did, they would not believe him. With a tight slam, the door closed behind Commander Merandus, along with any of Tate's hopes for surviving his return to the colonies.


End file.
